


Unparalyzed

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 13, Riding, Shaving, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform, post michael!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 17:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15320310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: With a little help from Rowena, Sam gets Dean back from Michael. His brother is rocking more than just some fancy get up -- he's got quite the beard. Sam doesn't think much of it, but as it turns out, it bothers Dean far more than he can say.Sam knows just what to do.





	Unparalyzed

**Author's Note:**

> This story did not come out even remotely as planned. All the pictures of Jensen rocking his hiatus beard had me wanting to write bearded Dean, maybe some rimming, maybe some beard burn... but it just kept falling apart. Couldn't get it to work. Then it hit me -- with help from the always helpful and supremely patient Tal-- that I was writing this backwards. This story was not supposed to be about keeping the beard -- it was supposed to be about _losing_ it. Funnily enough, because just the week before I'd been craving shaving fic, and while mine certainly doesn't compare to the best out there, I guess it was high time I just write one myself!
> 
> Beta by [gluedwithgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gluedwithgold) \-- thank you is never enough <3
> 
> Title from Our Lady Peace's _All You Did Was Save My Life_.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Sammy?”

His voice is different, finally right again. Only Dean could ever say Sam’s name that way, could ever say so much with just those two syllables, but Sam knew before he even opened his mouth that it was his brother. The shift in his posture, the direction of his toes, the set of the lines at his eyes – all different, all told Sam that he’s looking at his brother again, that the spell worked, that Michael is gone.

Dean is wearing quite the get-up, and he’s got more beard than Sam has ever seen on him, but he’s _Dean_ , and there’s such a terrible expression in his eyes that Sam is moving before he can stop himself, taking his brother into his arms.

Dean sags against him, arms wrapping around Sam’s back and fisting in his jacket, and the ferocity of his grip as he buries his bearded face in the cradle of Sam’s neck is startling. When Dean was a demon, he was still himself, however twisted. He was still the one in control. It only now occurs to Sam how different this would’ve been, being possessed – and while he knows only too well what it does to him –  he’s not sure how Dean will be faring.

He doesn’t seem ready to let go, so Sam just holds him, speaking softly just for Dean to hear, _it’s over, it’s alright, he’s gonna be okay_.

There’s a dramatically loud huff as Rowena shifts somewhere behind them and then clears her throat. It  seems to snap Dean out of it and he lets go, shuffling back from Sam’s embrace to look past him right at her.

Sam marvels at how in the span of an instant, his brother’s face changes, whatever broken man he just was now disappeared behind a mask Sam’s seen his whole life with an expression of vague irritation.

“Sorry to interrupt your…” she eyes them suggestively and waves a hand in their general direction. “But we really ought to be going. Unless you’d like to wait for company, of course.”

Dean glares at her then aims a look at Sam that says _really? Rowena?_ but Sam just purses his lips back at him. Dean should be damn grateful, not just for Rowena but also that Sam snuck her that spell from the Black Grimoire because she wouldn’t have been strong enough to banish Michael otherwise, but now is not the time to get into it.

“She’s right, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean isn’t impressed but he nods.

“Always, dearie,” Rowena chirps happily, winking at Sam before turning on her heel and making for the exit.

Sam sighs, and gestures for Dean to go ahead, which he does even as he rolls his eyes at her.

For a just a moment, Sam watches, and feels a renewed wave of relief at the familiar sight of Dean’s gait, the set of his shoulders and even the bow in his legs that didn’t look quite the same while Michael was in control. Something threatens to break loose in his chest as it really sinks in that it’s over, that Dean’s back, and Sam takes a deep breath to steady himself.

Dean looks back at him over his shoulder as if sensing his brother’s hesitation, always, and the brief expression in his eyes tells Sam there’s too much distance between them already.

“Sam,” Dean says, and he understands.

Sam catches up with two big steps, and shadows his brother closely as they make their way back to the car.

 

\---

 

With Rowena finally gone, and Cas steering Jack out of the bunker on some made-up errand, Sam isn’t sure what to say. His brother was quiet and far away on the drive back, not entirely unexpected, but it felt dangerously different to Sam. A decade or so ago, he would’ve asked if Dean wanted to talk about it, and his brother would scoff and drink his beer and say no, but Dean isn’t the same man he was, older and wiser and surprisingly better at communicating than he was after Hell. Sam wants to think he’s older and wiser, too, but standing alone with his brother now, he has no idea what comes next, how to navigate what Dean’s been through and what he needs to deal with it – what they both need.

“Dean, do you–” he clears his throat as he breaks the silence, then pulls at his chin in reference to Dean’s well-trimmed but out of character facial hair. “Want a shower? Or, uh, space? I…” he clenches his fists as his side, struggling not to put any pressure on his brother despite the fact that Sam has weeks’ worth of want, worry, and desperation warring just beneath the surface.

“Later,” Dean’s eyes are tired, but the corners of his lips turn up in a small smile as he reaches for Sam’s hand. “Come to bed.”  
  
Sam’s heart flutters as their fingers lace together. He wants whatever Dean is capable of giving him, wants to give whatever Dean needs from him, and can hardly believe Dean might just come out and ask him for it.

“Please,” Dean presses, and his voice is subdued but he squeezes Sam’s hand tightly. He’s still not saying much, so very like him to be so sparse with his words, but he says plenty without them.

Sam leads the way. Dean lets him.

There’s a moment when the door closes behind them where Sam hesitates, because he hasn’t been able to figure out if bed in this context simply meant _come sleep with me_ , but then Dean grabs him with two fists in his shirt and kisses him, hard. Sam is so desperate for the taste and feel of his brother’s mouth he _almost_ doesn’t notice the beard, he doesn’t _want_ to, but it’s so distinct from the fine stubble he’s been used to the majority of his life. It’s not that it doesn’t look good – hell, Sam’s not sure it’s possible for Dean to look anything other than amazing – it’s just different.

He must react more than he meant to because Dean pulls away, not far, but sharply. 

“What?” Dean snaps, and it’s gruff. Sam starts.

“Nothing, just– your beard–” Sam grins because he can’t help it, because he wants Dean to know he’s just adjusting, it’s all okay, but Dean doesn’t laugh. 

“It’s not– _ugh_ ,” Dean steps back, angry, dragging his nails through it as though he could take it off that way. “It’s _his_.”

Dean drops to the edge of the bed, frustrated and worn out. 

Sam winces, because he gets it. It’s not okay at all, it’s not his brother, but if it bothered him so much, why wouldn’t he just go shave–

“Sam,” Dean croaks out, and Sam’s attention refocuses on his brother, who is obstinately not looking at him, one hand covering his eyes, pads of his finger and thumb pressed to his temples. Dean’s other hand is stretched out on his knee, not reaching for Sam outright but getting there, and it’s shaking. Sam answers his own question with the sudden understanding: Dean doesn’t want to be alone.

That thing, the one rattling loosely in Sam’s chest, it does break now, at the realization. It feels like a swift kick to his gut, and as the air whooshes out of him on a shocked exhale, Sam drops to his knees in the open vee of his brother’s legs. He covers the hand on Dean’s thigh with his own and gently reaches for Dean’s bearded chin with the other. It feels foreign against his fingers, a strange barrier to the skin he wants to touch so desperately, and he knows exactly what to do about it.

Dean lets Sam turn his head towards him but keeps his eyes cast down at the floor.

“Dean, do you trust me?” Sam starts with that, because he knows his brother will grumble, and Dean does look at him then, exasperated, and he huffs. _Of course I do_.

“Okay then,” Sam stands, still holding Dean’s hand. “Come on. I have an idea.”

 

\---

 

Dean blinks at the set up Sam’s put together, not quite sure where to start. He’s in turns impressed, surprised, annoyed, resigned, and fucking grateful. He can barely tell up or down right now, feeling weirdly out of place in his own body, even though it’s finally his again after weeks on the sidelines, fighting tirelessly for control that Michael never gave up, even when Dean had to watch him commit horrors with his hands, even when Michael figured out how best to torment him, forcing him to imagine tearing Sam apart over and over and over again with those same hands.

Michael’s out of his head but the sick fantasies he forced on him remain in memory, scars too fresh, still so vivid Dean can see the blood spilling between his fingers, the ones he can’t keep from shaking unless they’re holding onto his brother, real and whole and safe and his. He can’t imagine being able to let Sam out of his sight much less out of arm’s reach, so the thought of going to shave off Michael’s beard was something he was completely unprepared to entertain. This scenario was so implausible to him, something he could never have allowed himself to ask for, that Sam offering it on his own overwhelms him, and Dean has to deflect just to keep those last threads of himself together.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean manages to get out finally, and Sam immediately looks sheepish, springing into action, reaching for Dean with both hands.

“The Men of Letters have all these old school shave kits, and I’ve always wanted to give the straight razor a try, but–” he shrugs, and Dean understands. It’s a luxury and an indulgence they never let themselves feel they have the time for. “I know what you wanna say, but don’t– don’t argue, Dean, just…”

Sam’s voice gets soft and low as he enters Dean’s space, pushing Dean’s – _Michael’s_ – jacket off his shoulders. He tilts his head and kisses Dean’s temple, and Dean can only close his eyes, try to imagine nothing else in the world but the feel of his brother’s lips.

“...let me, please,” Sam whispers against his skin, his fingers working through the buttons of Michael’s vest, and Dean can’t– it’s too much, the words are too hard. He nods, and doesn’t realize he’s clinging to Sam until his brother is trying to take off the vest and shirt both.

Dean lets go long enough for the material to get removed, and he sighs as they drop to the floor around his feet like a physical weight has been lifted from his shoulders. It’s shaky but it’s relieved, naked from the waist up, _in his own skin_ , and Sam kisses him, gentle but deep, his tongue parting Dean’s lips, and Dean moans around it, grounded by his little brother, vital and familiar and home.

Sam breaks the kiss and they’re both starting to pant. He leans their foreheads together for a moment, then moves to get the shave kit and Dean starts to protest, needy and vulnerable like he can only be with Sam, but the words still die in his throat.

Sam pasues, one eyebrow up in question, and Dean can see how earnestly he wants to do this for him, wants to take care of him, so he tries to find the courage.

“Uh,” he starts, then clears his throat as he shifts where he stands, and he reaches down, slipping a thumb on the inside of the waistband of his pants. “All– all of it. Please.”  
  
Dean can barely look at Sam as he asks as it is, but the way Sam looks back at him makes him choke. He huffs out a laugh, desperate, and covers his eyes with both hands as Sam comes back towards him.

He hears Sam crouch, one knee on the hard tile, and then Sam’s hands are working at his belt. Dean knows what Sam’s doing, knows he’s there, but in the darkness of closed eyes behind his cursed hands, he sees blood. He’s barely keeping it together, and he can’t help the way panic shoots through him. He opens his eyes and doesn’t let himself look down, but he reaches out for Sam’s wrist.

He can feel the way Sam looks up at him, frozen under his touch, and Dean takes a few deep breaths.

“Dean?” Sam checks in with a tenderness Dean wants to drown in. He nods.

“Keep goin’,” he breathes, and Sam does, undoing Dean’s fly with Dean’s fingers still wrapped around his wrist. He makes himself let go so Sam can do as he asks, putting a hand on each of Sam’s shoulders as he kicks off Michael’s shoes. He steps out of his pants and underwear when Sam pulls them down, and lets him pull off each of the dress socks Dean is still wearing even though it makes him feel ridiculous.

Free then of Michael’s wardrobe, naked in front of his brother, Dean lets out another shaky sigh and takes a deep breath. Sam looks up at him and he can finally look back. He even offers Sam a small, genuine smile, already feeling better than he has, and the one Sam gives him in return is full of hope.

He lets Sam guide him to the chair he brought into the showers, set against the wall next to one of the sink and mirrors, the contents of the shaving kit spread out along the porcelain edge. As he sits, Sam turns on the showerhead next to them, obviously hot, steam starting to billow up from the stream, and Dean just lets himself watch his beautiful baby brother work, trying to forget about anything else but this.

Sam has a stack of hand towels already set aside, and he grabs one off the top of the pile and soaks it under the hot spray of the shower. Dean watches as he wrings it out, then grabs it at the corners and turns to face him.

“Weren’t kidding when you said you’d thought about this, huh,” Dean muses aloud, liking how it feels that he can say something he might’ve said before, something that feels like him.

Dean can’t be sure if the rising heat in the room is a factor, but he’s fairly certain Sam blushes.

“I– um, watched… a couple YouTube videos,” Sam admits, and Dean grins even as Sam drapes the hot, damp towel over his face. He wants to make fun of him, and the instinct feels right, but Sam looks so pretty when he’s blushing, and Dean’s mouth disappears under the towel, so he lets the moment pass.

The towel gets wrapped up along the sides of Dean’s face, over his eyes, and he tenses as his world gets dark, but Sam has him, easing Dean’s head back to rest against the cool tile, hands pressing the towel gently into his skin.

“This okay?” Sam says from above him, still holding the towel in place but no doubt ready to remove it if only Dean should say so.

Dean breathes forcibly out through his nose and focuses on the firmness of Sam’s capable hands on his face as he nods. “Yeah, Sammy. It’s okay.”

He relaxes into it, feels himself get warm everywhere, the towel on his face and the hot steam in the air as it starts to cling to his skin. After a moment, Sam removes the towel, but Dean makes himself keep his eyes closed just to prove to himself he can, listening as Sam fiddles with whatever comes next at the sink not two feet away.

“Shaving cream now,” Sam announces, and Dean nods again, ready. He hears Sam rub his hands together and then they’re moving on Dean’s face, smooth, vaguely mint-scented foam being combed into his beard by Sam’s strong fingers, painted on the skin all around it on his cheeks and throat.

Sam eventually withdraws his hands, satisfied with his work, and Dean listens as he turns on the tap to rinse away the remaining cream. There’s a light scraping as Sam drags a stool closer, and the sound is jarring enough in the humid quiet that Dean cracks open one eye to look at his brother. Sam has a towel over one thigh and a straight razor in hand. He’s still wearing all his clothes, even though the air is warm and heavy.

Dean is half-hard as he sits there, comfortable and happily bared to his brother’s capable hands, more at ease and feeling farther away from Michael with every passing minute. He closes both eyes and sighs.

“Just– relax, Dean. I got you,” Sam whispers, even though it’s just the two of them, and Dean lets the sound of it wash over him.

“I know,” he whispers back, and then Sam’s fingers are on his face, pulling his skin taut as he moves the razor in short drags at the base of the hairs. After every other pull or so, the blade disappears, and Dean imagines he must be wiping off the razor on the towel. He feels lighter with each swipe, more and more of his face revealed as Sam gives him what will likely be the closest shave he’s had in over a decade. It’ll be different, a bit, but it’ll be him, at Sam’s hands, and exactly what he needs.

Eventually there’s another scrape of metal on the tile as Sam gives up on the stool. He’s a huge, hot presence as he enters Dean’s orbit, and then there’s a worn, denim-clad leg on each side of one of Dean’s and Sam is sitting on Dean’s knee. He’s too freakin’ big for this, holds some of his own weight like he’s afraid he’s going to break someone, but it takes Dean back to when he did fit there and he can’t help but groan at the memories.

Sam stops what he’s doing and eases some more of his weight off Dean’s knee. “Too much?”  
  
“Naw, Sam, it– s’good,” Dean mumbles languidly, blindly reaching for his brother’s hip to urge him back down, and then Sam is humming and it sounds like a smirk.

“I can see that,” Sam says quietly, his voice equal parts teasing and pleased, and all at once Dean is acutely aware of how hard he is, dick flushed full and brushing up against Sam’s leg. The revelation startles him, too distracted and lost to the moment to have even noticed, but _goddamn_ , Sam has got to finish with his face because Dean needs his little brother _now_.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean means to make it a growl, but it comes out more like a plea. He almost bristles at the sound of it, but Sam still gets with the program, reaching for Dean’s face again, and leans forward, dropping his knee so the top of his thigh presses against Dean’s cock. 

Dean sighs at the pressure of it and lets himself relax as Sam tilts his chin up to get underneath. He returns to the rhythm quickly, a couple short pulls and then a swipe across the towel and back again, and Dean is blissfully unaware of anything outside this bubble Sam’s created, taking Dean’s life into his hands with each pass of the razor along his throat, the safest place he could ever be.

He feels like a new man as Sam stands to rinse the blade and put it away, done. Dean resists the urge to touch his face, knows there’s still remnants of shaving cream that Sam is no doubt going to wipe away, and, as expected, Sam is back in a moment, another damp towel being gently pressed to his skin to clean him up.

“God, Dean,” Sam exhales, and the awe in his voice makes Dean open his eyes. Sam’s fingers lightly brush his face, and Dean reaches up to catch them with his own, trapping Sam’s palm against his cheek. He can feel how different it is, from the beard and his usual stubble, so smooth there’s a fleeting urge to comment about having a face like a baby’s bottom, but the way Sam is looking at him makes the thought vanish quick as it came. His dick throbs as Sam drags their hands down his face, his thumb on Dean’s bottom lip, pulling his mouth open, and the beard is gone but Dean still needs, desperately.

“Sammy, you’re killing me,” Dean complains, and Sam’s eyebrows actually go up in question, like he doesn’t know. “Why are you still fucking dressed?”

Sam laughs.

He actually fucking laughs, a startled, real laugh, and Dean can’t help but grin, too, because he can’t remember the last time he saw something so stupidly beautiful.

Sam strips quickly, still chuckling as he tosses his shirts into the growing pile of clothes, and Dean just watches, one hand lazily moving on his dick. Sam’s hair is sticking to his face in places, starting to curl at the ends in others, the steam from the still running shower clinging to Sam’s skin and running down his body in large drops when there’s enough. Sam is hard, too, and Dean’s mouth waters immediately at the sight of it. He squeezes himself and sinks his teeth into his lip, _want_ pulsing through him sharply, making his breath catch and his dick ache because nothing feels better than this, than Sam, and Dean just wants to be home, forget for a little while how long he’s been gone and why. 

Sam smiles when he sees what Dean is doing, pink rising in his cheeks, and Dean will forever be ruined by the way his brother can look hungry and shy at the same damn time. In the next breath, Dean has a lapful of his not-so-little brother, Sam’s hands on his face and his cock skating across the soft, slick skin behind Sam’s balls, lining up along the crack of his ass.

Dean groans as Sam settles and attacks his mouth, the head of Sam’s cock bumping against his stomach as his tongue pushes between his lips. Dean’s arms snake around his brother’s waist, one pulling him in snug and the other reaching up his back to the nape of his neck so he can change the angle of the kiss. Sam moans as Dean sucks on his tongue, his fingers pressing in hard to the smooth skin of his face, and then Sam is moving, shifting his hips and grinding down in Dean’s lap like they’re fucking and– _shit_ , it feels good, so good, and Dean gasps, lets go of Sam’s tongue and breaks the kiss, tilting his head back against the tile and canting his hips up so Sam can rub along more of the length of him. Sam’s hands drop away from his face and dig into his shoulders instead.

“Dean, I–” Sam starts, breathing heavily, giving his head a shake in a futile attempt to get the hair out of his eyes and off his face. Dean reaches up to help, tucking the hair behind Sam’s ears.

“When– you were gone, and– thought– _god,_ I thought– not again, not this time–” Sam is spiralling, breaking open, and Dean feels his brother’s pain like an echo in his own chest.

“I know,” he breathes, leaning in to rest their foreheads together, speaking into Sam’s skin, lips and teeth brushing his brother’s face as he rambles back, a hand in Sam’s hair to ground them both. “I know, baby, I know. I– it was–”  
  
Dean shakes his head, a lump rising in his throat as he thinks on it all, suppressed by Michael and trapped in his own subconscious, seeing only what Michael lets him see or wants him to, afraid he’d never see Sam again or worse, Michael would make him watch as he killed him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean sobs despite his best efforts, and buries his face in the crook of Sam’s neck. His arm around Sam’s waist is crushing and his grip so tight in Sam’s hair it’s got to hurt, and Sam whimpers but he clings right back, his nose pressed into the side of Dean’s head as he curls down around him and his nails cut in the skin of Dean’s shoulders.

Sam stills against him as Dean wrestles with himself, temporarily at the mercy of the dam that just broke, and they hold onto each other like there’s nothing else left in the entire fucking world.

Sam’s hands smooth across the top of Dean’s back as he gets his shit together, rolling his head across Sam’s collarbone and sighing to himself, _that’s it. Enough now_. He makes himself look up at his brother, and Sam’s eyes are a little red, too, but he smiles at Dean anyway because it doesn’t matter that they thought. It’s over. They’ve got each other again and nothing else matters.

Sam kisses him and it’s deep but gentle, the urgency momentarily benched, though Sam’s tongue in his mouth is quickly fanning those flames. Then Sam is reaching and his long fingers are circling Dean’s wrist at his back, pulling his hand from his hip and pushing it down, and Dean smiles against his brother’s mouth.

“Somewhere you need me, Sam?” Dean slips into their normal back and forth easily and it’s reassuring, allows him to feel smug when Sam whines.

“ _Dean,_ ” long and little brother impatient as expected, dependable, but then, breathy and serious, “you know I do.”  
  
Sam slows the needy fidgit of his hips, lets go of Dean’s wrist to take his face in his hands instead, make Dean look at him. Dean is laid bare, Sam can see into the very heart of him with those eyes, he’d swear it.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean replies earnestly, a little dreamily just thinking about how much he knows.

Sam smiles. He catches Dean’s mouth in another kiss, and then he nips at his bottom lip.

“Then what are you fucking waiting for? You’re killing me, Dean,” he parrots Dean’s earlier words back to him, exaggerated just enough to remind Dean of the little brat that’s still in his brother somewhere, all these years later. It’s Dean’s turn to bark out a laugh, and he gives Sam a firm swat on the ass.

“Bitch,” Dean chides with grin, then his hand is sliding between Sam’s cheeks, and he presses the tips of his first two fingers inside his brother without any preamble, slick and pliant with the heat, steam, and sweat. Still, it’s a bit rough, but Sam makes himself relax despite the surprise. Dean pushes all the way in and forces a groan from Sam that might have started as _jerk_ but it got a little lost the more of Dean’s fingers disappeared.

Dean sighs, smiling, _relieved_ just at this, the feel of his brother’s body, the hot clutch of it and smooth muscle at his fingertip, the sounds Sam makes when they do this, all the things that remind Dean neither of them can live without it. It’s real and the most _them_ , and Dean thinks maybe, just maybe, he’ll be okay. Well, not– but okay enough.

Sam’s hips are moving again, dragging his ass against Dean’s dick, and Dean hums at the friction, starts moving his fingers.

“Fuck,” he bites out, the weight of his brother in his lap, the way Sam’s moving and the way he clenches around Dean’s fingers a promise. “Gonna– _fuck_ – gonna ride me, Sammy?”

“God, yes,” Sam moans, and there’s something frantic about the way he’s moving now, begging Dean to get them there faster. “Need it– need you.”  
  
Dean’s dick aches, and he can feel everywhere Sam’s skin is getting wet with everything he’s leaking.

“Been so empty,” Sam continues, his mouth dropped forward against Dean’s ear. “Gotta feel you– wanna be so full it hurts, feel you for days, Dean, _please_.”

“ _Shit_ – goddammit, Sam,” Dean growls, thrusts his fingers in hard enough to make his brother gasp, and then takes them out as gently as need allows.

Sam gasps again, a different sound this time, and shakily lifts up off Dean’s lap as Dean grabs his own dick.

Dean gives it a squeeze and watches as Sam leans and reaches for a bottle of lube Dean hadn’t even noticed among the other things on the sink. He holds out his hand and Sam drips a generous amount in his palm. Dean slicks himself up quickly and Sam hovers over his knees watching, his hair damp now and falling in front of his face, his big dick bobbing in front of Dean’s.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean urges, holding himself upright with fingers around his base.

Sam gets in position with a hand reaching behind himself, searching for Dean’s dick to guide it in, and he groans at the pressure- _pop_ when the head pushes inside. “ _Yes_.”

The word gets drawn out as he sits down, taking Dean all the way in as slowly as he can manage, the muscles of those long, little brother legs straining with the effort. It almost feels too good, and Dean’s eyes flutter but he forces them open, makes himself watch; the determined, blissed-out expression on Sam’s face is like nothing else. _Goddamn_ , his baby brother is pretty – bright, bitten-pink lips, a flush to match in his cheeks and across his chest, mouth parted in that soft _oh_ as he settles in Dean’s lap again.

Dean wraps an arm tight around Sam’s narrow waist and drops his sweaty forehead to Sam’s shoulder. It’s already hot in here, but Sam is hotter still, a fucking furnace on the inside, and he’s tight – it’s been too damn long since the last time – Dean’s whole world was upside down but Sam puts it right, and he’s not going to last long at all.

Then Sam starts to move, and Dean is at his mercy, pinned under the lean bulk of him. He withdraws his arm and gets a hand on each of Sam’s hips as Sam gets a hand on each of his shoulders for leverage. Dean won’t look away again now, couldn’t possibly, not when Sam is rocking back and forth in his lap, fucking himself on Dean’s dick, too pretty and too perfect. Sam picks up the pace, nails digging into Dean’s skin to add more marks to the ones he’s already made, his hips jerking in a furious rhythm. He babbles incoherently as he moves, no more than half-words and broken sounds, and there’s nothing else. Dean’s whole world is narrowed to this, his beautiful baby brother, and the orgasm building steadily at the base of his spine.

He grabs for Sam’s cock, making a fist for him to fuck into, just as Sam stutters out his name.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sam nods quick, panting hard, not slowing down, and Dean knows he’s close, doesn’t know which of them is going to go first, but knows if Sam does that’ll be it for him, too.

“That’s it, Sammy. Fuck me like you missed me, little brother,” Dean eggs him on, tightening his grip a little.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam wails, sucks in a sharp breath, and comes. He spills over Dean’s hand, splatters up his stomach and onto his chest. Dean feels it everywhere it touches him, and Sam’s rhythm breaks, but he keeps going, and then Dean is right there with him.

“Fuck–” Dean bucks his hips as he comes, and Sam scrambles to hold onto him for a moment, laughing a little as he gets back his grip. Dean lets go of Sam’s softening dick and lets his come-covered hand drop to his brother’s thigh, the other already digging in, and he distantly hopes he leaves bruises. _Feel me for days, Sammy_.

 

\---

 

Sam slumps over as he starts to come down, resting his head against his brother’s and loosely linking his hands together behind Dean’s neck now that he doesn’t think he’s about to be tossed off of him. Dean’s thick fingertips are deep in the meat of his thighs and the ache of it feels so good mingling with shaky vestiges of pleasure still pulsing just under his skin.

Sam’s tired and worn out in the best way, full of his brother’s come, and might as well be floating. There was a tiny part of him that worried they might never have this again. Save Dean or die trying, that was it. But they did it. They really fucking did it and right now, Dean’s under him, in him, and Sam knows he’s got to be crushing him, it’s steamy and hot, the shower needs turning off, but he just does not want to move. He’s not ready to be just one person again, not yet, not so quickly after getting Dean back.

He feels Dean’s muscles relax under his hands, hears when he takes in a big, easy breath, and Sam leans back to give him a little more breathing room, but Dean lets go of his legs and wraps both arms around his waist instead, keeping him close.

Sam chuckles a little but is happy to stay right where he is, happy to think Dean’s happy here, too, and he tucks his face into Dean’s neck as best he can at this angle.

“Don’t– not yet,” Dean murmurs, giving Sam a squeeze, and Sam melts, proud of his big brother when he asks for something he needs. They’ve come so fucking far.

Sam can’t resist.

“What about the water?” he feigns concern, and Dean scoffs.

“You start paying for it all of a sudden and not tell me? It can wait.”  
  
Sam smiles. “’Course it can.”  
  
He kisses Dean’s shoulder and closes his eyes, just holds on. They’ll get up, clean up, and go to bed eventually, but no matter what, Sam is never letting go.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments and kudos are love <3


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